In the morning Power’s first care was to ascertain the position of the room allotted to Willard. As he imagined, it proved to be in the back part of the hotel, every apartment in the front section being occupied by season residents. Shortly before six o’clock, therefore, he drove away in an open carriage, confident that nothing short of an almost incredible chance would bring the older man to vestibule or porch at that early hour. Halting the vehicle at a corner near Nancy’s abode, he walked to the house, and surprised the earliest servants astir by bidding one of them wake Mrs. Marten at once, as he had news of her father.

“Nothing serious,” he added, with a reassuring smile at a housemaid whose alarmed face showed an immediate sense of disaster. “Mrs. Marten is leaving Newport today, I think, and my message may decide her to start sooner—that is all.”

But Nancy had seen him from her bedroom window, and now fluttered downstairs in a dressing gown.

“What is it, Derry?” she asked, and mistress and maid evidently shared the feminine belief that such an untimely call presaged something sensational and therefore sinister.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said cheerfully, knowing how essential it was that she should not be startled into an exclamation which might betray her secret to the listening servants. “I heard from Dacre last night that you meant to meet Mr. Willard in New York, and I have reason to believe that you ought to depart by the first train. To do that, you must get away from the house in forty minutes. Can you manage it?”

She came nearer, seeking the truth in his warning eyes, carrying a brave front before the maids, but with fear in her heart, because she and her lover had eaten of the forbidden fruit, and now they were as gods, knowing good and evil.

“Mr. Dacre!” she repeated. “I suppose Mary Van Ralten told him what I said. But I don’t quite understand. Why should I hurry my departure?”

Nothing in this that anyone might hear and deem significant. Power laughed, as though her air of slight alarm had amused him.

“Come into the veranda,” he said. “You are not afraid of the morning air, and it is not on my conscience that I have robbed you of an hour’s sleep, since you were up and around before I arrived.”

When they were alone, though shut off from inquisitive ears by wire-screen doors only, he said, in a low voice:

“Don’t say anything that will cause comment, but your father arrived at the Ocean House soon after midnight, and means to be here about nine o’clock. Our train leaves at seven. Will you use your own carriage, or shall I send a cab in half an hour? You will be ready, of course?”

Nancy was not of that neurotic type of womankind which screams or faints in a crisis. “Y-yes,” she murmured. “In less time, if you wish.”

“No need to rush things,” he said coolly. “He is not to be called till eight. I heard him give the order.”

“You heard him!”

“Yes. Thanks to Dacre, when he arrived I was sitting in the veranda, well hidden, as it happened; so I planned to reach you this morning with a couple of hours in hand.”

“But, Derry, I have a note written, and ready for the post. I can’t explain now——”

“Put the note in your pocket, and deal with the new situation at leisure. There’s only one thing I regret——”

“Regret! Oh, Derry, what is it?” And again the shadow of fear darkened her eyes, eyes of that rare tint of Asiatic blue known as blende Kagoul, a blue darker at times than any other, and again, bright, dazzling, full of promise, rivaling the clear sky on a summer’s night.

“That I dare not take you in my arms and kiss you,” he said. “You look uncommonly pretty in that negligÉe wrap.”

She blushed, and put up a hand to reassure herself lest her hair might be tumbling out of its coils. Then she ran to the screen doors and pushed them apart.

“I can’t wait another second,” she said. “Please send that cab. Our own men will hardly be at the stables yet.”

She waved a hand and vanished. Her hurried orders to the domestics came in the natural sequence of things, and caused no surprise. When she drove away from the house at twenty minutes of seven every member of her establishment believed that Mrs. Marten had gone to join her father in New York, but, for some reason communicated by her “cousin,” was traveling by the first train of the day instead of the second. The only perplexed person left in “The Breakers” was Julie, the French maid, who thought she would find a holiday in Newport dull, and was, moreover, genuinely concerned because of the scanty wardrobe which her mistress had taken.

Oddly enough, Power, waiting with stoic anxiety outside the New York, New Haven & Hartford station, shared some part of Julie’s thought when he saw Nancy’s two small steamer trunks and a hatbox.

“Well!” he cried, helping her to alight. “Here have I been worrying about the capacity of the cab to hold your baggage, and you bring less than I!”

“Pay the man,” she said quietly. Then, under cover of the approach of a porter with a creaking barrow, she added, “I am coming to you penniless and plainly clad as ever was Nancy Willard. You wish that, don’t you?”

“You dear!” he breathed; but she had her full answer in the color that suffused his bronzed face and the light that blazed in his eyes.

He had experienced no difficulty in securing the small coupÉ of a Pullman car to Boston. In that train there was little likelihood of any chance passenger recognizing them. In actual fact, they had the whole car to themselves. Nancy, who could not banish the notion that the whole world was watching her, was nervous and ill at ease until the train pulled out of the station. She even started and flushed violently when the conductor came to examine their tickets, whereupon the man smiled discreetly and Power laughed.

“You’re the poorest sort of conspirator,” he said, when the door was closed on the intruder. “We had better admit straight away that we’re a honeymoon couple, because everybody will know it the instant they look at you.”

But he failed to charm away the terror that oppressed her spirit. She felt herself a fugitive from some unseen but awful vengeance, and her heart quailed.

“Derry,” she said, almost on the verge of tears, “I’m beginning to be afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

Somehow, despite his utter lack of experience of woman’s ways, he had guessed that this moment would arrive, and was, to that extent, prepared for it.

“Of everything. I—I know that I alone am to blame. It is not too late for you to draw back.”

“Why do you think I might wish to draw back?”

“Because of the horrid exposure you must face in the near future.”

“My only trouble is that I may not bear your share as well as my own, Nancy. The combined burden would lie light as thistledown on my shoulders. Let us be true to ourselves, and it will surprise you to find how readily the world, our world, will accept our view.”

“In your heart of hearts, Derry, do you believe we are doing right?”

“When ethics come in at the door love flies out by the window. We are righting a grievous wrong, and, although our actions must, for a time, be opposed to the generally accepted code of morals, I do honestly believe that this is a case in which the end justifies the means.”

“If I were stronger, Dear, we might have kept within stricter bounds.”

“You might have gone to Reno, for instance, and qualified for a divorce by residence?”

“Something of the sort.”

“I’ll take you to Reno, if you like; but I’m going with you. Don’t forget that he who has begun has accomplished half. Why are you torturing yourself, little woman? Shall I tell you?”

“I wish you would.”

“Because,” and his arms were thrown around her, and he kissed away the tears trembling on her lashes, “because, like me, you are really afraid lest we may be too happy. But life is not built on those lines, Deary. It would still hold its tribulations if we could set the calendar back to an April night of three years ago, and you and I were looking forward with bright hope to half a century of wedded joy, with never a cloud on the horizon, and never a memory of dark and deadly abyss crossed in the bygone years. Let us, then, not lose heart in full view of the one threatening storm. Let us rather rejoice that we are facing it together. That is how I feel, Nancy. I have never loved you more than in this hour, and why should I repine because of the greatest gift God can give to man, the unbounded love and trust of the one woman he desires? You are mine, Nancy, mine forever, and I will not let you go till I sink into everlasting night.”

After that, an interlude, when words were impossible, else both would have sobbed like erring children. At last Nancy raised her eyes, and smiled up into her lover’s face, and he understood dimly that, when a woman’s conscience wages war with her emotions, there may come a speedy end to the unequal strife.

“Derry,” she whispered, “have you realized that I don’t know where you are taking me?”

So the battle had ceased ere it had well begun. Perhaps she was hardly conscious—if she were, she gave no sign—of the crisis dissipated by that simple question. It closed with a clang the door of retreat. Henceforth they would dree their weird hand in hand. They would look only to the future, and stubbornly disregard the past. Shutting rebellious eyes against a mandate written in letters of fire, they would seek comfort in Herrick’s time-serving philosophy:

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.”

The train slackened speed. They were nearing a wayside station, and they drew apart in confusion like a pair of lovers surprised in some quiet corner. But Power laughed softly, and Nancy caught a new note of content in his voice.

“A nice thing!” he cried. “The girl is safe aboard the lugger, and I don’t even tell her to what quarter of the globe she is being lugged. But the sailing directions are easy. We breakfast at Boston. Don’t you dare say you cannot eat any breakfast!”

“I can, or I shall, at any rate,” she retorted bravely.

“Then Boston will be the best place on earth at nine o’clock. Afterward we take the Burlington road, and cross Lake Champlain. There’s a first-rate hotel on the west shore, and we stay there tonight. Tomorrow we plunge into the Adirondacks, and lose ourselves for as long as we please. How does that program suit my lady?”

“Whither thou goest——” she said, and her eyes fell.

Thus did they thrust dull care into the limbo of forgetfulness, and if there was standing at the gates of their Eden a frowning angel with a drawn sword, their vision was clouded, and they could not see him.

America rises early, even in holiday-making Newport; so Mr. Francis Willard did not breakfast in solitary state. When he entered the dining-room at half-past eight next morning he cast a quick glance around the well-filled tables, and ascertained instantly that the one man whom he did not wish to see was absent.

Toward the close of the meal he beckoned the head waiter.

“Where does Mr. Power sit usually?” he inquired.

“Over there, sir, with Mr. Dacre, the English gentleman, at the small table near the second window.”

Following directions, Willard noted a good-looking man, apparently about forty years old, who was studying the menu intently. As a matter of fact, Dacre had seen the newcomer’s signal, and guessed what it portended.

“Oh, indeed! Mr. Dacre a friend of his?” went on Willard.

“They are often together, sir.”

“And where is Mr. Power this morning?”

“He left by the first train, sir.”

For some reason this news was displeasing; though Power’s departure made plausible any inquiries concerning him.

“That’s a nuisance,” said Willard. “I—wanted to meet him. I came here last night for that purpose. Do you happen to know where he has gone, and for how long?”

The head waiter was not in the habit of answering questions about his patrons indiscriminately.

“I can’t say, I’m sure, sir,” he replied; “but if you were to ask Mr. Dacre he might know.”

Willard weighed the point. In one respect, he was candid with himself. He had come to Newport to spy on Nancy, and, if necessary, to put a prompt and effectual end to any threatened renewal of her friendship with Power. The intuition of sheer hatred had half warned him that the man whom he regarded as his worst enemy might possibly visit Rhode Island; but some newspaper paragraph about the purchase of horses bred in the state of New York had lulled his suspicions until he chanced to meet Benson at lunch in the Brown Palace Hotel. Marten’s secretary was worried. He had replied to Nancy’s letter the previous day; but was not quite sure that he had taken the right line, and he seized the opportunity now to consult her father. Of course, he did not reveal his employer’s business, and Willard was the last person with whom he could discuss the mortgage transaction fully; but he saw no harm in alluding casually to Mrs. Marten’s curious inquiry, and was relieved to find that her father agreed with the answer he had given.

The actual truth was that Willard felt too stunned by the disclosure to trust his own speech. He was well aware already that Marten had used him as a cat’s-paw in bringing about the marriage; but that phase of the affair had long ceased to trouble him. The real shock of Benson’s guarded statement lay in Nancy’s pointblank question. Why had she put it? What influence was at work that such serious thought should be given to his financial straits of nearly four years ago?

In the upshot, he left Denver by that night’s mail; though the letter in which he spoke tentatively of a visit to Newport, and of which Nancy had availed herself in talk with her friends at the Casino, had been only a day in the post, and, in the ordinary course of events, demanded a reply before he undertook a journey of two thousand miles.

And now he was vaguely uneasy. Though he hated the sight of Power, he wished heartily that the interloper who had snatched from him the bonanza of the Dolores Ranch had remained in Newport during this one day, at least. Yes, he would speak to Power’s British acquaintance, and glean some news of the man to whom he had done a mortal wrong and therefore hated with an intensity bordering on mania.

Dacre saw him coming; so it was with the correct air of polite indifference that he heard himself addressed by an elderly stranger.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Willard, “but the head waiter tells me that your friend, Mr. Power, has left Newport. As I am anxious to have a word with him, I thought that, perhaps, you wouldn’t mind telling me his whereabouts. My name is Willard, and I arrived here from Denver at a late hour yesterday; at midnight, in fact, my train having been delayed by an accident.”

Nancy’s father was well spoken. He owned a certain distinction of manner and bearing. Like the majority of undersized men, he was self-assertive by nature; but education and fifty years of experience had rounded the angles of his character, and, in a matter of this sort, he carried himself with agreeable ease.

Dacre was all smiles instantly. “What! Mrs. Marten’s father?” he cried. “Delighted to meet you! Sit down, Mr. Willard. Let us become better known to each other!”

Willard was hardly prepared for this cordial recognition; but he shook hands affably, and seated himself in Power’s chair, as it chanced.

“You have heard of me from my daughter, I suppose?” he began.

“Yes. She was telling Mrs. Van Ralten and several others, including myself—let me see, was it last night at the Casino?—that you were thinking of coming East; but I gathered she did not expect you till a few days later. I was mistaken, evidently.”

“No. I am giving her a surprise. I managed to get away sooner than I expected, and the prospect of Newport’s Atlantic breezes was so enticing that I just made a rush for the next train.”

“Well, you are here, and the long journey is ended, a pleasant achievement in itself. Was the train accident a serious one?”

Willard supplied details, and his sympathetic hearer swapped reminiscences of a similar mishap on the Paris, Lyon et MediterranÉe Railway. Incidentally, he wasted quarter of an hour before Willard could bring him back to the topic of the missing Power.

“Ah, yes—as to Power,” nodded Dacre, seemingly recalling his questioner’s errand. “Too bad you didn’t turn up yesterday. Power is off to New York—made up his mind on the spur of the moment—and I rather fancy he will not be in Newport again this year. Indeed, I may go so far as to say I am sure he won’t, because he has invited me to his place at Bison—somewhere near Denver, isn’t it?—and I am to keep him posted as to my own movements, so that we can arrange things to our mutual convenience.”

Willard laughed, intending merely to convey his sense of the absurdity of two men playing hide and seek across a continent; but Dacre’s allusion to Bison brought a snarl into his mirth.

“You will write to the ranch, I suppose?” he inquired casually.

“Yes,” said Dacre, knowing full well that he was being egged on to reveal any more immediate address he might have been given.

“Then I can only apologize for troubling you, and——”

“Not at all! What’s your hurry? Let’s adjourn to the veranda and smoke.”

“I must go and see my daughter.”

“Oh, fie, Mr. Willard! You, an old married man, proposing to break in on a lady’s toilet at this hour!”

“My girl is up and dressed hours ago.”

“Well, now that I come to think of it, you are right. Most mornings while Power was here he joined Mrs. Marten and others for a scamper across the island, and they were in the saddle by seven-thirty—never later.”

In such conditions, being essentially a weak man, Willard was as a lump of modeler’s clay in the hands of a skilled sculptor. He could not resist the notion of a cigar, he said; of course, it was easy to induce Dacre to gossip anent the lively doings of the Casino set. Ultimately, he entered a carriage at ten o’clock, whereat the Briton, watching his departure, smiled complacently.

“Heaven forgive me for aiding and abetting any man in running away with another man’s wife,” he communed. “But I know Derry and Nancy and Marten, and now I know Willard, and being a confirmed idiot, anyhow, I am mighty glad I was able to secure those young people a pretty useful hour and a quarter of uninterrupted travel. As we say in Newport, it should help some.”

It had an effect which no one could have foreseen. It rendered Willard’s arrival at “The Breakers” a possible thing had he reached Newport that morning, and thus, by idle chance, closed the mouth of scandal; for he positively reeled under the shock of the butler’s open-mouthed statement that Mrs. Marten had left the town by the first train.

The man did not known him; but, being a well-trained servant, he made, as he thought, a shrewd guess at the truth.

“Surely you are not Mr. Willard, sir?” he said respectfully.

“Yes, I am.” Simple words enough; yet their utterance demanded a tremendous effort.

“Ah, there has been some mistake, sir,” came the ready theory. “Mrs. Marten meant to meet you in New York, and had arranged to travel by the nine o’clock train this morning; but Mr. Power made an early call—you know Mr. Power, sir?”

“Yes—yes.”

“He seemed to have some information about you, sir, which caused Mrs. Marten to hurry away before seven. There has been a sad blunder, I’m sure. What a pity! But if you know what hotel Mrs. Marten will stay at, you can fix matters by a telegram within a couple of hours.... Aren’t you well, sir? Can I get you anything? Some brandy?”

By some occult process of thought, Willard, though stupefied by rage and dread—for he never doubted for a second that Nancy had flown with Power—held fast to the one tangible idea that her household was ignorant, as yet, of the social tornado which had burst on Newport that morning. Could anything be done to avert its havoc? God! He must have time to recover his senses! While choking with passion, he must be dumb and secret as the grave! A false move now, the least slip of a tongue aching to rain curses on Power, and irretrievable mischief would be done. Small wonder, then, that the butler mistook his pallid fury for illness.

“Won’t you come into the morning-room, and sit down, sir?” inquired the man sympathetically.

“Yes, take me anywhere—I’m dead beat. I’ve been traveling for days in this damned heat.... No! no brandy, thank you. A glass of water. Mrs. Marten expected me, you say?”

“Yes, sir—at New York.”

“Ah, my fault—entirely my fault. I misled her, not purposely, of course. She gave you no address?”

“No, sir. Said she would write in a few days, perhaps within a week; but she imagined your movements were uncertain, and she could decide nothing till she had seen you.”

“Ah, the devil take it, my fault! I ought to have telegraphed.”

He harped on this string as promising some measure of safety for the hour. By this time he was seated, and ostensibly sipping iced water, while his frenzied brain was striving to find an excuse to encourage the man to talk.

“Perhaps Mrs. Marten may return when she discovers her mistake,” he contrived to say with some show of calmness.

“Well, sir, that may happen, of course. My mistress did not take any large supply of clothing, and left her maid here; so, when she misses you in New York, she will probably wire for Julie, at any rate.”

“Julie?”

“The French maid, sir.”

“What time did Mr. Power call?”

“Very early, sir. About six o’clock.”

Willard was slowly gaining a semblance of self-control. He realized that he had been checkmated in some inexplicable way; but it was imperative that Power’s interference should not give ground for suspicion.

“I am beginning to grasp the situation now,” he said, forcing a ghastly smile. “Mr. Power heard of the accident to my train—it was derailed late last night—and, fearing lest I might be injured, he hurried Mrs. Marten away without telling her.”

“Then you came by way of New York, sir?”

“Yes. We were held up near Groton.”

“Pity you didn’t come by the Fall River steamer, sir. Then you would have caught Mrs. Marten, as the boat arrives here at a quarter of four in the morning.”

Willard wanted badly to swear at the well-meaning butler. He had chosen the train purposely in order to be in Newport the previous night, and his own haste had proved his undoing. Why should this fat menial put an unerring finger on the one weak spot in his calculations?

But he felt the urgent need for action, and he was only losing time now, as it was evident that Nancy had covered her tracks dexterously where her servants were concerned.

“Is that cab still waiting?” he demanded suddenly.

“Yes, sir. I didn’t notice any baggage. Shall I——”

“I don’t intend to remain. I’ll telegraph to New York, and go there by tonight’s steamer. Meanwhile, I have some friends at the Ocean House whom I would like to look up. By the way, don’t mention to anyone that I am upset by my daughter’s absence. It might come to Mrs. Marten’s ears, and she would be unnecessarily worried. My heart is slightly affected—you understand?”

The butler understood perfectly. He could be trusted not to cause Mrs. Marten any uneasiness.

Then Willard set out on the trail of the runaways, following it with a grim purpose not to be balked by repeated failure. At the station he had little difficulty in learning that a lady and gentleman—lady young and good-looking, gentleman who walked with a limp—had taken tickets for Boston. He was in Boston within three hours; but Power had broken the line there to such good purpose that the scent failed, for he had caused Nancy to go alone on a shopping expedition, and purchase her own ticket for Burlington, and, when he joined her in a parlor car, the fact that they were traveling in company was by no means published to all the world.

So Willard returned to Newport, removed his baggage from the Ocean House—for some inscrutable reason he distrusted Dacre’s smiling bonhomie—and occupied quarters in a less important hotel. Changing his name, by the simple expedient of ordering a supply of visiting cards, he called on the horse-breeding judge, who could facilitate his seemingly eager quest for Power only by telling him to send a letter to the care of a New York bank. This was something gained, and he hurried to New York, where, of course, he was suavely directed to write, and the letter would be forwarded.

Driven to his wits’ end after a week of furtive visits to restaurants, on the off chance that the fugitives might really be in the metropolitan city, he employed a private inquiry agent, and, five days later, received the first definite news. A “Mr. and Mrs. Darien Power” had registered at the Lake Champlain Hotel on the evening of the day of Nancy’s flight, and had gone into the Adirondacks next morning!

On the principle that it never rains but it pours, quick on the heels of this startling intelligence came a letter from Nancy. It had been sent to Denver, and some bungle in readdressing it had caused a prolonged delay. It was brief and to the point, and had been posted at Boston.

Willard brooded long over this straightforward message. He was blind and deaf to its gentle reproach, finding in it only a confirmation of his worst fears. There was no need now to map out a course of action; he had limned that in the main before leaving Newport. Vengeance on Power, vengeance ample and complete, was what he craved for. He understood, in some furtive and perverted way, that he could not strike a mortal blow at a man of Power’s temperament by using the bludgeons of the law to expiate an offense against society. Both Nancy and her lover must have discounted the effect of the social pillory before they transgressed its code beyond redemption. Indeed, they would hail with joy the edict which banned them—be it proclaimed from the housetops and carried round the earth by the myriad-tongued press! Nancy’s letter, too, showed that she would not scruple to make known her defense, and Willard was well aware that it would serve to rehabilitate her in the eyes of her friends.

So he had devised a ghoulish and crafty punishment, which, the more he pondered it, the more subtle and effective did it appear. As the scheme grew in his imagination, he almost hugged himself in rapturous approval of it. So warped was his mind that he might have discovered, were he capable of making an honest analysis of motives, that he was actually gloating over the position in which his daughter was placed if only because of the weapon it placed in his hands against Power.

To succeed, two conditions were necessary—Power must not have written to his mother, nor Nancy to her husband. To his thinking, neither of these eventualities was likely. The very environment of the woods and lakes of the Adirondacks forbade the notion. If he was right, he would turn Power’s dream of happiness into bitterest gall; if wrong, there was still another alternative, deadlier, more lurid, but far from being so attractive to a mean and rather cowardly nature. Time alone would show which project promised success—to fail in both was nearly, if not quite, impossible.

Meanwhile, no painted Indian ever camped on the trail of unsuspecting pioneer with more malign intent and rancorous tenacity than Willard displayed in his pursuit and tracking of the erring pair. He was not a righteously incensed father, but a disappointed man who saw within his grasp the means of glutting the stored malice of years. To appreciate to the full Willard’s mental processes at this period of his life, not only his double-dealing in the matter of Nancy’s marriage, but his vain longings for the lost wealth of the Dolores Ranch, must be taken into account. Even then, his apologist might plead an obsession mounting almost to insanity. Nothing else would explain his actions; but no words could palliate them, for the ruthless Pawnee he resembled would assuredly have chosen a less ignoble revenge.